a bitter Epilogue
by Mlle. Machine
Summary: Everything that happened on that one faithful night.. all that he's vowed to leave behind was nothing more than the result of emotional shock. The music of the night is played again... alone. He will always be the Phantom, the Angel, the Ghost.
1. Chapter 1

**Based upon the 2004 Andrew Lloyd Weber film. **

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own Phantom of the Opera, or any characters. This story, plot, and whichever new characters that might be introduced along the way, however are mine. **

**A/n: In most fanfictions I've read, The Phantom's name was 'Erik'. In the 2004 film, the Phantom's name was CLEARLY not mentioned, so until I find out where this information came from (and if it's plausible enough), he shall be known to me as the Phantom or the Angel of music, or him etcetera… etcetera…**

It has only been a few months… perhaps only weeks. It remained unknown and uncared of. Even so, it was soon enough for the marriage of the young and naïve Vicomte de Chagny, an event that filled most people's hearts to the brim with happiness and excitement. People laughed and cried, either way, having a splendid time, dancing until their feet were sore, drinking until their vision blurred or eating until the women's corsets threatened to burst. It was a popular event indeed for such an important person to the late Opera Populaire.

The newly-wed couple truly were happy together, and their heads were so full of each other, there was no room for any common sense. Christine looked at her old childhood friend and new husband dazedly. He was all she saw for a few moments as they both shared loving gazes and smiles as they sang to each other and danced so closely, they could have been mistaken for one entity.

"Look, Little Lotte," Raoul broke their stare and waved a hand proudly across the energetic view, though they were still rather close. "Everyone, from dancers, to chorus girls to lead singers, are all here. Even Carlotta showed up." He added his very last statement with a titter, and his bride giggled along with his laughter. Carlotta has been bitter towards Christine ever since she took her role as lead singer. The two were surprised she bothered to show up. He replaced his eyes were they belonged and positioned his forehead back onto hers.

She smiled an even bigger smile than she already had on… if that was possible. "And the best thing is," she cooed lovingly "they're here for the both of us."

The music's beat picked up quite a bit and the colourful scene became a dancing frenzy.

"Come," he said, breaking away from their warm embrace. "Lets rest before our feet threaten to fall off." He lead the way to their table, hand in hand.

Within the wild twirling of skirts, fattening of middles and blurring of vision, a ghastly shadow, unnoticeable to happy partiers waited behind a cold stone statue of an angel carrying a harp in her hands… or was it male? These old artists had a knack for creating such androgynous sculptures… and paintings, for that matter…

An uninvited guest, for he was seen to be a madman, however, he needed something important, and was forced to come. He leaned his head against the cold stone and closed his eyes, listening for only one voice while he waited… that angelic voice that was almost within his grasp… a voice he could have heard every night, had it not been for that nimrod of a patron. He can still feel it weaving through his fingers, but knows better than to pursue the thought of capturing her again. But it was unfair to blame his defeat upon anyone. Love was such a disgusting emotion that ensnared it's pray and refused to let go, no matter how much they struggle against it. The harder they struggled the tighter the vines became, only to wrap the poor creature in a startling realization: they had to give in… they needed it.

He unconsciously reached up and felt his gnarled and purpling flesh tickle his fingers like a swarm of insect's feet. This was the curse that deprived him of what he needed most…. This was the reason why killing became his reliable way of getting what he wanted…. This is what created everyone's fear and loathing of him.

_Christine…_

A sudden wave of curiosity rolled over him as he thought of her name. He suddenly had the urge to look at his angel for the first time since he painfully watched her row away with Raoul, leaving him alone with his bitter emotions. He made sure not to breathe too deeply while merging himself within the shadows of the statue, and swiftly glanced at the giggling couple. They were too far away for him to see their faces clearly, but the atmosphere made their undying happiness all too obvious. A sharp pang of jealousy struck him immediately square in the heart and he straightened right up against the statue before anyone could lay eyes on him and his temporarily agonized expression. The cold stone once again greeted the back of his head, as he silently gulped the air to try and soothe the anguish deep within. He could not forget about her. He thought of her every waking moment, and always yearned to see her angelic face. The stabbing feeling of betrayal dug into his flesh once again, this time with burning knifes… but if it's one thing he learned from that night was to stop his attempt at gaining Christine's love… it was past her right now… she probably forgot about him anyway. His heart seemed to have gained a ton over the past few milliseconds, and painfully tugged at his chest.

"Here." Someone suddenly said with a stressed, fearful tone, and shoved two articles right into his arms with shaky hands. She did not look at his face, rather, at the nook of his neck. "I should have known you'd be hiding here." The blonde girl quickly looked behind her before throwing herself into the darkness with him, her breath just about as shaky as her hands. "I don't know how much more of this I can take. My mother's already been on my case ever since she caught me with a dark suit and cape, and… well… Christine is my best friend. I feel like a traitor." Meg looked down as she heard him place a new mask on his face with a small smacking sound and heard the rustle of fake hair as he placed a new wig on his head.

"You've done well." He whispered, his voice rich with melody and the night itself, yet painfully empty. "You needn't feel that way anymore, I already have all I need."

She still looked down, for some reason not wanting to look at his face. It's been a habit ever since she could remember. Perhaps it was all those ridiculous stories that Joseph Bouquet often spewed. Bouquet… the Phantom… the image of the bloodshot-eyed drunkard dangling lifelessly from that rope, twirling and twitching made her sick to her stomach, but that was not the time to think of such things.

"Oh!" she said, a little louder than she was supposed to, suddenly remembering something. The Phantom winced slightly, for his ears were growing used to the soft buzz of incoherent conversations, mixed with the soothing silence of the stone statues. Coins chinked around as she fished for them in convenient hiding places of her dress. He felt a little uneasy with all the noise going about. Anyone could have heard them easily. "Here's the change." She held her coin-filled hands out and found herself taking in every detail of his face after she mechanically looked up at him for the first time. She was frozen stiff.

The spotlight had pointed in their direction for no more than a second and cast a glowing light on certain parts of his face. The mask of death he had once sworn to leave behind was back, this time a mysterious shade of ebony. Most of what he had promised that one faithful night was nothing more than the result of emotional shock, which was almost immediately cured by rest. He was the Phantom, the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music, and always will be. He'd scolded himself to no end once the shock had faded and he'd realized he'd left that thick, dark and lustrous wig of hair back at the burning opera house. It was no matter to him, however, he still had quite a sum of money from the 20 000 francs he'd monthly receive from Lefevre, but he dare not show his monstrous face in public. Luckily, the second generation of the Giry family was around to help him for the second time. His hair replacement was no longer the intriguing bottomless black, but an enticing, dark shade of mahogany, held in a waste-long powerful braid. Thin bangs hovered over his mysterious and intense, yet deprived blue eyes attractively.

She had never expected the normal side of his face to be so good-looking. She always knew his mask only covered a quarter of his face, but now, she was almost glad that was all it covered. The light that shined their way was filtered by both his body and the statues, making his presence seem shiny and almost godly.

"Keep it. I have no need for it." He whispered once more, and, with that swish of a cloak, it was as if he'd never been there. Blinking, Meg began to wonder whether she really saw him standing there, or if it was merely her imagination. But, before she could really ponder over it, she became frustrated that now she'd have to carefully replace all those coins she had fished out for what might have simply been a shadow… and in the dark too…

He should have left right after he picked up his effects. He did not need, or want to wait around any longer, and with so many people around at that, but he couldn't. As he swiftly moved from one hunk of androgynous stone to the other, originally looking for an exit he'd discovered earlier on, he was instinctively getting closer and closer to where the couple sat and relaxed their sore feet.

Christine breathed bubbly giggles at her husband's flattering charm and moderately intimate hand gestures. Her head spun only with thoughts of him and his charismatic nature, so much that she even forgot her own name for a moment or two.

Within the love-filled flirting and laughing, somehow, she heard a familiar thick swoosh of a heavy cape, and her laughter stopped before her eyes darted right past her husband and found the unnaturally clear glass doors interesting. Luckily for her, Raoul was not too sharp so he didn't notice and thought she was still staring at him, mesmerized by his antics. She listened to it again as the cape fell around the mysterious entity's feet. The fabric did not sound the same, but there was something so enigmatically familiar about the way it fell. She let out a soft gasp as she felt and embraced the strange Angel's intense presence once again. Her body started to quake and sweat as it always had whenever he was around. Soon, not her husband, nor the wedding existed any longer, and her love for Raoul became nothing but a shadow. She felt light and blank, a feeling that was eerily pleasurable. Longing, needing to hear his deathly breathing, her ears strained so hard, a splitting pain ripped through them, but she just had to hear it. Her head twitched as it mechanically turned toward the statues, expecting to see either that marred side of his face, or the side that had always made her wonder whether or not she really was satisfied with her choice.

But nothing was there. Disappointment hit her so hard, she was forced back to Raoul's flattering, and bubbles and giggles refilled her head… it must have just been her imagination.

The figure within the shadows swiftly moved once again through the statues. He finally saw what he longed to see, and was not dissatisfied by the fact that she hadn't changed much.

He continued gliding through the shadows rapidly and silently, having a bit of difficulty finding the exit he'd found earlier on. A few paces ahead of him, a woman walked gloomily through the statues and broke down at the wall, leaning only her forehead against it, so her whole long upper body stuck out and was dangerously in his way. He started to slow down, but unfortunately for the both of them, there was no way he could completely stop on time.

His warm body struck hers with a small impact, but only hard enough to cast both of them in the small, lit gap between two statues. All in one second, the light washed over their faces and revealed the woman's pointy nose and very sharp features all around. She looked nothing like she used to, but her distinct facial features immediately joined her with a name he wished he hadn't remembered… Carlotta. He almost didn't recognize her very lightly made-up face and flaming red hair that was not held in either a cone or unnatural curls, but in flowing light waves. Her eyes were also different. They no longer stank with conceit, but were wide, watery and longing. The passing light lit up her freshly fallen tears like crystals.

The distraught opera singer's insides froze. A chill rushed through her at what seemed like an impossible site. That face… that mask… those eyes…

He was gone. In a blink of an eye, he disappeared. She knew he's been there, she could still feel the heat of his body pressed on her side. She shuddered for a moment, but when the chill had gone away, her insides melted and burned once more with the loss of a loved-one. She fell to the floor and sobbed silently in the shadows of the statues, surrounded by her own style of pain. She did not want to see the newly wed couple, it only brought more grief and washed her in another close-to-deadly wave of suffering.

Finally finding what he was looking for, he fled from the social madhouse through a dark tunnel behind a large statue leading to the streets of Paris, his new playground. A gust of wind rush right passed him as he walked through, sending his cape up high in the air long with his new, long braid. (a/n: no, it did not fly off his head… only the braided part blew in the wind…)

End chapter one

Review? Like it? Think it should burn in writer's hell? Let me know, and remember, if you're going to bother flaming, make sure there's a reason. I cannot improve without knowing what I am doing wrong.

Judo: hmm… realistic fiction, ne? Hm, that's a first

Pyro: why oh WHY did YOU have to come back?

Judo: **looks slyly** because you missed m-

Pyro: I-did-no-such-thing **grumbles** stupid rules…. You DESERVE to be banned from my computer.

Judo: ah, but I am not…

Judo: **whispers** don't mind her, she's just pissed that she wrote yet another bad story.

Pyro: ………. I heard that…

Judo: uh…. Oh…


	2. Chapter 2

**_MJ-Skywalker_: I greatly appreciate the info. I kind of figured that, but I just wanted to make sure. I have meant to read the novel before I heard of the film, however, seeing as how I've been bombarded with work and training, I haven't been able to, so excuse my ignorance for now. And, yes, as ridiculous as it sounds, I have stumbled upon quite a number of writers, writing from the same root, who have all 'created' the same name for an anonymous anime character (not on this site, but one that I used to write for a while back). Turns out that the author allowed others to use that name, so, naturally, whoever stumbled upon that piece of writing (which was quite a bit) was lazy enough to use that name instead of either coming up with their own or challenging themselves to keep the character anonymous. I am thus forever cursed by paranoia. I was by no means implying that the writers were uninformed/misinformed.**

**_SilentPhantasy:_ er… yeah, I know… typo.**

**_PhantomSith:_ er… I thought that was pretty self-explanatory. I'm not too good at descriptions, especially surroundings, nor am I a fan of such detail. Describing the surroundings TOO much well only drag the story on and dry it out, which is why I don't bother if it's already rather obvious. Plus, the reader will not pay much attention to that kind of description while reading, so all they will remember are the statues and random dance scenes. As for the paragraphs, they are smaller when written, however, sometimes they get squished together after the chapter's been posted. This is beyond my control. Do me a favour and do _not_ imply that your other reviewers have been dishonest (yes, I've read your reply). They probably have enjoyed your stories as much as they say have. I'm not such a great writer, but I usually look at pieces of writing from a critic's point of view, so I've got a habit on picking at the mistakes and may come across as harsh. Plus, as you may have noticed, I'm not a big fan of too much detail, and yours went overboard… And thanks for the link, but I've found the book at the school library.**

**A/n: Thanks for the reviews and all the info. Immensely appreciated. As for the whole name thing, I don't know if I feel comfortable enough to use the name 'Erik', since I do not know what the actual character is like, and it would only confuse me (strangely enough). So, he shall continue to remain anonymous, though, if I (or the readers) become overly annoyed by it, I will start (or at least try) to use his official name.**

**One more thing: as you may have noticed, this is not the typical PotO fanfiction, so, I've added my own characters, possibly my own little 'world' etc…. Having said this, if the reader cannot tolerate outside characters, press the escape button before fragments of your computer is decorating your floor. You have been warned, and I will not tolerate flames about what I've just mentioned.**

Christine lay awake, her eyes shut, waiting for sleep to finally seize her consciousness. She shifted around in bed, finding the spot closest to the tingling warmth of sleep… but her consciousness would not release her. Her honey eyes snapped open and she stared into the deep, musky darkness for a good while, a routine she'd picked up ever since she'd run away with Raoul, to try and help her fall asleep… who knew? Perhaps ultimate boredom would help. But she knew from experience nothing would. Not even counting sheep. As she'd do late every night, she slipped out of bed, careful not to wake up Raoul, who was snoring and mumbling quite loudly. She groped the darkness in search for a bathrobe and accidentally yanked it off of a hanger, sending other articles onto the floor along with it, consecutively smacking the ground with many small but clamorous clanks. She jumped and froze as the racket suddenly shattered the thick silence, letting out a small yelp of surprise.

All of her except her ears numbed as the silence crept back into the room. She listened for any signs of consciousness. Raoul mumbled incoherently, but went right on snoring. Upon deeming it 'safe', she carefully tiptoed out of the room, tripped her way down the cold wood, large spiral stairs and finally rested on the bottom step, where she huddled up against the wall and let her thoughts whirl around her.

Getting used to the perfect silence during the night seemed so strange. Back at the burned down Opera Populaire dormitories, the sounds of restlessly squealing orphans and ballet girls would be her lullaby, along with the calming voice of what was once known to her as the Angel of Music. She leaned her head back on the wall as his smooth, soothing voice crept back into her mind, bounced off every wall of her skull and echoed powerfully in her ears. Not even the irritating buzz of silence could dilute his pure voice, but it could never be the same. Never WOULD be the same after that one event.

She gripped her bathrobe and shuddered as the memories gusted through her head like a cold icy breeze.

-------

The creak of an opening door echoed throughout the Opera Populaire replacement. The natural light was strong enough, so there was no need to turn on the gas. Firmin still mechanically touched the wall for the light switch. It was then he realized that there, in fact, was no light switch. "So, this what our Patron got for us?" he asked dryly, unimpressed with it at first glance.

"Apparently…" Andre followed.

All staff, cast and crew members stood behind the managers eagerly, whispering and poking their heads out to the side to look at what M. de Chagny had found. Because no one was able to see it from where they stood, the crowd pushed and shoved and even trampled the struggling managers until all of them were standing inside.

The light of a bright new day ran over every ugly, unfinished detail of the new opera house. Wood was still hanging from the ceiling, there was nothing to brighten it but the natural light, and screws stuck out from every direction. Along with a new Opera house, came a few new dancers, chorus girls and actors, and many new, young musicians. Andre and Firmin still managed the newly born (or reborn) opera house and Raoul was still patron, this time though, having Christine by his side.

Almost the whole crowd moaned as every detail settled in. This was not an opera house! It was a disaster! Though the stage was larger, it was placed so randomly in that massive room, no one knew how this set up was going to work. No seats or rows were installed. The Boxes looked as though they threatened to fall, so everyone stood clear of them. Again, there were no seats or rows installed. The décor… no, wait, there was no decor… unless all the screws count.

"PATRON!" Firmin roared, temporarily forgetting Raoul's social status. He had to almost literally throw a few people aside before finally finding the young man. "What is this? A joke?"

"Monsieur, this was all that was available." He replied calmly.

"M. Vicompte de Chagny, have you ANY idea how long this will take to build! We haven't the time! And where do you expect us to get the money!" Andre yelled, coming to Firmin's side at once, in that same state of rage.

"Stay calm, Monsieurs." Raoul's dully-placid face annoyed the managers. "Your subordinates have trained their crew for the new gala during this long vacation, no doubt. We still have time. You need to put more trust in your subordinates, Monsieurs. I'm sure everyone is all ready for the gala, so we don't need to practice as much. The extra time can go into building up the house."

"Yes, you seem to have forgotten about the money…" said Firmin through gritted teeth, slightly twitching with irritation.

"I'll take care if it." The patron seemed so confidant, he sounded almost Naïve.

Firmin twitched again, momentarily unable to remember any words to penetrate the patron's child-like naivety. "Fine!" he snapped. "Shall we see what our crew as put together?" He glided his hand through the air in the direction of the random stage.

The orchestra set up right away on the floor, the actors and sopranos stomped onto the stage with such egotism, they seemed to have owned it straight away, though displeasure stilled rippled their arrogance. The ballet girls took off their shoes almost immediately and followed Mme Giry onto the stage.

Meg was shaking. Her eyes seemed distracted and she was mindlessly studying the back of her mother's head for God-knows-what reason. Her nervous hands fumbled restlessly with a loose thread hanging off her robe. She received another letter from him. He needed her help again, but the mere thought of his request made her hands shake uncontrollably, even though it was not much larger than the others. Still, it meant indirectly betraying her best friend and prolonging the heavy secret from her mother. _I don't get it…_ she thought to herself hopelessly _why me? Why do I have to- _"OW!" she yelped, and ripped her bare foot from the unpolished stage as if it were set ablaze. She instinctively held her foot in her tremulous hands and took a look at the pain-inflicted area. There, with its extended point embedded in her heavily calloused foot, was a long wooden splinter.

Madame Giry turned around sharply and shot her seemingly permanent harsh eyes at her daughter before throwing the managers a look that could have sliced through steel like tissue paper… though, admittedly, she was quite relieved. Now, her dancers would not have to perform a dance, which had not been properly coordinated yet. Very little could have been done in a mere month or so. This calming emotion, however, was covered up with perfection by her terrible piercing eyes, which instilled instant fear into the managers.

"This stage is not polished." She snapped. "How are the dancer's supposed to perform now?"

"Uhm." Andre choked.

Oh how hard it was not to chuckle. She had them right where she wanted them.

Firmin rolled his eyes. He was still furious. "Well don't ask us! Tell that airhead of a Patron." He pointed a harsh finger at Raoul.

Madame Giry sighed, simulating great irritation. "Either way. Meg is injured and we cannot perform today." She weaved her arm under Meg's and ordered all the dancers off the stage.

Upon crossing the managers while coming off of the stage as the girls rushed to put their shoes back on, the ballet instructor threw a look at both the managers and the patron that chilled the air. "Govern yourselves accordingly." She hissed before disappearing through the front door, all of her dancers streaking behind her and Meg on her shoulder, one shoe on one foot and the other in hand.

Raoul rushed after them, while Firmin sighed. "Anyone else?"

When no one replied, he nodded his head at Mr. Reyer, signalling the commencement immediately.

Carlotta sang a fast Celtic tune, which seemed to pleasantly nourish the sharp pitch. Her own music floated around her, temporarily letting her forget all her hardships. Her spirit floated high above. She was no longer standing on solid ground, but soaring peacefully through the air, casting all emotions into the wind. One emotion she hung onto, though, was the happiness and freedom she felt while singing… and that she was no longer compared to Christine, who had declared her retirement the night of her wedding. Why? Carlotta didn't care, and was too busy suppressing the pain in her heart while Christine gave her speech.

The orchestra, now composed of both elderly and young, struggled to keep up with the fast tempo, especially those on string instruments. They also had little time to prepare for this sudden presentation… though they did not have an excuse to escape from it. Even so, they managed to play well enough to suit Carlottta's voice and tempo.

Andre and Firmin savoured the sounds with almost sleepy expressions, drinking in the harmonious music with their eyes closed. Perhaps the Patron was right. Their anger and frustration towards the young man slowly diminished as the music flowed delightfully in and out of their ears and weaved in between, emitting an enjoyable peace and relaxation throughout their bodies…

A horrific screech abruptly broke the wonderfully flowing music. Carlotta was no longer soaring, but plunging through the air and hit the hard bitter ground of reality only moments later.

The hairs on Andre and Firmin's necks pricked upwards stingingly and both shuddered at the cringe-worthy noise. Their anger toward the Patron struck them again, and they both thought about how lucky he was that he was not there… they would have had his head for sure.

Carlotta, along with everyone else on stage pressed their hands to their ears, while all orchestra members darted their eyes at the one who'd caused the atrocious distraction.

"Why is eze music estopping?" Carlotta asked, screaming over the chorus of disturbed moans. She didn't mean to complain, but she couldn't last without music for long… it served as a dam, holding back an agonizing wave just waiting to beat against her battered and bruised heart.

M. Reyer rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air with a small moan. Now he was in for it.

"Signora, please," Andre started immediately to calm her down, without realizing her expression was not irritated at all, but desperate.

Old habits die hard, apparently.

"It was probably just an accident." Firmin completed the unfinished statement.

"You must train your violinists monsieur Reyer." Said Andre, imitating a scold, though it was obvious he was simply trying to stop Carlotta's annoying tongue before anyone got a lashing.

"They are not used to this Irish style." M. Reyer defended calmly, though his inward irritation seeped through his composed tone. "We've barely had a month of practice!"

A small hiss of pain was heard from the orchestra. Followed by a deep, dry "…great…" obviously coming from a young man, though his struggles were in vain, for whoever latched onto his right ear did not seem to want to let go.

"Silence, child." An elderly man scolded while he pressed his hard chalky nails further into the young man's ear. "Thiery, learn your instrument."

"Child… keh. I am twenty-seven years old, for god's sake…" retorted the one who was known as Thiery. He winced again as the old man increased the pressure on his ear and pulled upward. Some of his unruly deep black locks were caught between his attacker's dry fingers as well, only causing his hazel eyes to squint even further. A muscle in his wide-set, yet not-so-powerful-but-well-structured jaw twitched as his ear started to burn. He grinded his teeth together, revealing a slight under-bite. His violin was held clumsily in one of his long, bony hands while his bow was held as if it were a dangerous weapon.

"ESTOP IT!" Carlotta snapped all of a sudden. She could feel hot, unwanted tears pool in her eyes while her empty chest burned with soul-deep anguish. She needed a cover and fast. "WE START OVER!"

Thiery pulled back roughly with a sharp hiss and settled his violin back onto his slim shoulder.

--meanwhile--

"Mme Giry, wait!" Raoul shouted as he dashed after her and the dancers under the scorching sun. He held his hand above his eyes to protect them from its painful rays of intense light. He even envied some of the girls, who wore large hats over their heads, which shed a protective shadow over their eyes. "Wait for the rest of the tour. The best has yet to come."

"If you don't mind Raoul," She hissed while coming to a stop, though a huge smirk spread across her face the instant she opened her mouth. This was just too amusing. "My daughter was hurt by your imprudence. Who knows how long she'll have to wait before she could dance again." She knew inwardly that a simple splinter took no more than a few days to heal.

"Madame, if you please, there is a reason why I chose this building-"

"You mean other than the fact that it was all there was left?" she interrupted wryly, her back still turned to him.

"Weeeelll…."

"Good day monsieur." She kept walking, hitting her feet purposely against the hard ground. Some of the girls could not hold back a giggle when they saw their instructor's shoulders twitch with laughter.

"What about the dorms Madame!" he yelled after her, in obvious desperation. "You and the orphans need shelter, do you not? Would you not like to see where you would be staying this time?"

Madame Giry froze. Her stern face returned, suddenly becoming serious again. The joke was over. "Very well." she turned round on her heals and stomped forward, right passed Raoul and back into the music-filled, disastrous opera house. Meg struggled to keep her grip on her mother's shoulder.

At the first sight of Raoul, Firmin pounced and grabbed his collar. Though anger was suppressed at the moment, his eyes radiated dangerously with nuclear rage. He rubbed his eyebrows with a twitching hand and said in a strained tone, "they are not ready… what are we to do?" He clenched his fist tighter around the collar as his hands began to perspire.

Raoul kept his eyes on Madame Giry, obviously not paying much attention to the older man's complaint. "We need to hire some carpenters and craftsmen, then." He said dismissively, removing the manager's slippery hands from his collar effortlessly and quickly disappeared down a staircase… to Firmin's frustration…

Firmin flinched as his head shot down into shuddering shoulders as the music came to a halt, caused by another devastating sound, followed by several shouts: "THIERY!", a wince from the young violinist and a comment: "Get off my ear, you old fool." … then came a retort: "Silence child. That's no way to treat your elders." … and then Carlotta interrupted: "FROM THE TOP!"

Both managers slapped their own foreheads…. What a day…

Raoul, however, was having more luck than the managers. Mme Giry seemed pleased with the much larger dormitories, vast enough to fit more than double the amount of the previous house… and they'll need it too, seeing as how the younger orchestra members also needed a place to stay.

"A real diamond in the rough." She said, while keeping her eyes on the long halls and immense rooms. Meg's eyes followed in her mother's stare. Unlike the rest of the house, these parts were unfinished, but liveable, meaning that the orphans and the two Giry's were no longer obliged to stay at a cramped, temporary location.

"Do whatever you wish with it, these parts are yours to decorate." Raoul said. The woman's eyes never fell upon the patron, but still absorbed the surroundings. "Oh, there's a larger room just down another staircase. That could be used as a practice room, but you'll need to install your own equipment."

Mme Giry nodded her head as she pushed Meg up further onto her shoulder. The orphans, even the older ones, screamed with delight and ran wildly in and out of rooms until they found their own… not that they were much different. Shouts of "Called it!" and "Shot-gun!" drowned out the excuse for Celtic music from upstairs. There was no specific pattern as to where they slept, but most of the males and females grouped together on either side of the hall.

-----

The sun was setting, casting its heavenly colours through the vast, multi-coloured stained-glass windows. His long, mahogany hair bathed in striking colours of red gave it an air of crimson blood. The room from days ago was abandoned, and the ghost moved about freely, though still lost within the shadows of the lightless room. His cloak made thick sounds as it swished swiftly to and fro, dogging upturned chairs and dismantled tables.

"Where is she?" He whispered, though barely a sound was emitted.

The choir's voice was diluted into a ghostly sound from that room, though to his ears, it was far from beautiful. The priest needed singing lessons, the women needed to control their pitch and the men needed to sooth their tempo. All of them needed to coordinate.

Almost as if to prove how it's done, he opened his mouth and followed the priest's words and gathered some of the tune. Impeccable notes floated from his mouth, bringing the broken piece of music together into a masterpiece, though to him, it was merely for amusement. He didn't sing loud enough for anyone to hear him at first, but as he became more and more familiar with the song, he got carried away and his voice arose with the adrenaline. He was so absorbed after a certain amount of time that he hadn't realised the eventual halt of his 'background sound'. He couldn't have known for sure, but he was certain the choir heard him, just like he was able to hear them.

Rapid footsteps were heard from not too far off into the distance. Even so, that gave the Phantom just enough time to vanish into the shadows of those androgynous statues with just one whoosh of a cloak. The long braid fell at his back after a small delay…. Meg will have to come another day.

Nervous huffs and puffs of a man went about the room, followed by clumsy footsteps and a few clanks, obviously caused by the priest tripping over tables and chairs.

"Where is he?" he mumbled silently, frightfully. "That voice, it was here, I heard it-"

"Father Francis?" a small voice cut off his ramblings after a pyramidal strip of orange light cut through the darkness. It remained there as long as that boy stood in the doorway and cast his own shadow through the light.

The priest jumped with anxiety. And by the subsequent consecutive clatters, the musical mastermind knew that the man of god had most probably slipped and landed on some of the props. "Didn't you hear it?" he stammered. "There's someone here!"

"It was probably your imagination, Father." The child replied and led the priest out of the room.

The human ghost peaked his head out from that statue, and made sure no one was looking before stepping out of his hiding spot and slipping through the still slightly opened door. His eyes hurt and squinted at the illumination flooding his vision violently.

He could have easily been noticed, had the priest and the boy faced him, however, their backs were turned and he made not a sound as he ran off the opposite direction, hidden in the shades of the walls. Time to explore…

-----

Raoul plopped down in a chair beside his wife. She turned her weary eyes to him and smiled warmly, though it looked almost painful with tiredness etched on every feature. He smiled back, or at least tried to, but the best he could pull off was a look of sheer worry and sadness… but Christine's eyes were still closed so she wouldn't have noticed.

It almost hurt him to see her like this, so exhausted. He found her early that morning propped up against the bottom step, and decided not to wake her up as he left for work, but by the looks of it, she still barely got any sleep.

He turned his eyes away from her and looked straight ahead in a tired daze. He was not fully awake either, but he felt a little more alert, seeing that his partner was completely worn out.

She moved in close to him and laid her head on his scrawny shoulder. "How's the house?" she asked sleepily.

"They have yet to appreciate it." He answered with a yawn.

"What about Madame Giry?"

"She didn't seem pleased at first, because Meg got injured, but she lightened up after seeing the dorms." He smiled tiredly and landed a small kiss on her head. "We have a lot of work to do."

"mhnnn….." Christine groaned sleepily.

---

**I know, this was a boring chapter, but it serves as a bit of an introduction, so it could not be helped. Bear with me. And review.**


End file.
